hanging on the wire
by piratesails
Summary: "You were making faces to a friend of yours behind me and I thought it was for me and waved back. OMG this is embarrassing."


Robin brings him a beer after their final set, and Killian can't even bring himself to tease him for being nice when his mouth is too occupied grinning that wide grin that is surely going to split his whole face in two. There's never been this big of a crowd for one of their gigs, never been a room full of people who roared with applause and shouted out for encores. (They'd played two extra songs before his throat started to get dry and he knew he just physically couldn't do any more.)

The _Dread Pirates_ aren't famous, per se, they've got songs up online and a video that's nearing a half a million hits, and people do sing along when they come to shows, but it's not as if they're being ransacked on the streets and having their clothes torn off to be sold on eBay. That's a level of fame Killian doesn't know if he wants to get to.

He's signed a few CDs and arms, and is nearly done with his beer when he sees a woman in front of him. She's a few feet away, crowds milling about around her, her face hard to make out in the shoddy lighting of the bar. He's used to people meeting him after shows, which is why when she waves at him, he does the proper thing and waves right back.

He realises a bit too late, hand already in the air and his expression shifting to that grateful-happy combination that falls into place when he's talking to fans. He realises once she's closer, once her hand freezes where its poised and her eyes shift to him. They shift _to_ him, from something behind him, which means she was definitely _not_ looking at him to begin with.

All the blood rushes to his cheeks, and he fingers are stuck mid-air, the awkwardness of the situation turning him into a statue.

The woman looks at him with a tilted head and an amused expression. She isn't smiling, but her eyes are dancing with mirth under the awful red-yellow lighting. Her gaze shifts back to whoever she must _actually_ be waving to (gods, he's an _idiot_ ) and then she's looking at him again. Him with his sweat-matted hair, and legs still shaking from the adrenaline of their last set.

If he wasn't looking so closely, he might have missed the way she looked over at him once more, eyes widening just a fraction when they meet his. "Shit," she mutters, shaking her head, "you're that band guy."

There are better things to be called, no doubt, but he finds himself endeared in an instant by the way her demeanor changes. She tucks a wayward curl behind her ear hastily and opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

Killian manages to get his hand to move, only to have it reach behind his ear in an nervous itch. "Aye," he replies, ever the smooth talker.

"Fuck, sorry, I didn't see you, I was-," she stops again and looks at anywhere but him. "I was looking for a friend I was supposed to meet here, and she's there behind you."

"I gathered as much." He feels his ears burn, suddenly grateful for the lack of illumination that would no doubt give away the fact that they're tinting red. He doesn't quite know what to say, but he wants to say something so she won't sidestep him and leave him wondering for the rest of the night about what her laugh sounds like. "Though, to be overlooked on a night where the main event is your show is a tad insulting." _Good save_ , he tells himself, and attempts to put on his most teasing smirk.

She raises her eyebrows and crosses her arms. "Yeah, well, that's what you get for walking around like normal people."

"I consider myself rather normal, love." He doesn't know which one of them steps closer, but the distance between them is far smaller than it was a minute ago.

"Two albums and shows in three states, that's your normal?"

His elation is genuine. "So, you _do_ know of us. I was beginning to be seriously hurt."

"Like I said, sorry." She looks a bit embarrassed then, too. "I have to go, my friend is waiting," she gestures to behind him.

Killian turns and sees a brunette with red highlights sitting at the bar, watching them with great interest over her drink. He has to huff out a laugh when she raises her hand in the air and yells, "Take your time!" He turns back to the woman that has turned him smitten in a matter of seconds and catches her rolling her eyes.

"I'll take your word for it," he tells her, with a smirk.

"Right." She's about to move away when she does the exact opposite and moves closer, her hand going to his arm in a gentle brush. His leather jacket feels far too hot on him. "You guys were really good, even if I was late and only caught the last three songs. It's, uh, something else, hearing it live."

He doesn't know what to do with all of the information he's just been handed, so he settles on silently mourning the loss of her hand when she moves it away."We're playing at a bar downtown tomorrow night," he finds himself saying, wondering if he's setting himself up for rejection considering she hadn't actually wanted to meet him in the first place.

"I know," is all she says before she leaves him there. Through the throngs of people, he watches her pull her friend out of her seat and drag her to the exit. He should have offered to buy her a drink. And he definitely should have at least asked her name.

(Her name, he finds out the next night is Emma Swan, and she stays by his side well after the set is over this time, mingling with the whole band. She's more confident this time around, and the bar is bright enough for him to see her green eyes, know the exact shade of her hair, and let himself fall into the dimples that dent her cheeks when she laughs.)

(When he can't find another way to describe her laugh other than the fact that it's sweeter than any melody he's ever heard, that's when he knows he's fucked.)

* * *

 **a/n: a short little one-shot in a verse I might explore some time. leave me your thoughts?**


End file.
